Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kate
A daughter.
Never in the days, months or years of the tortured hell I’ve put myself in have I imagined that Gage left me because he had a daughter.
He’s a father.
“Can I make you a cup of coffee or tea?” Gage glances over his shoulder at me as he unlocks the door to his apartment. “Do you still like Earl Grey with steamed milk?”
I only liked it back then because he was intent on me drinking it one chilly Christmas Eve.
His grandmother had lived on the brand of tea that Gage bought when he went to the grocery store to get the fixings for an extravagant holiday dinner for us.
He came back with the tea, a loaf of day-old bread, and a can of chicken noodle soup.
His wallet was on the kitchen counter, so some coins and a few dollar bills in the pocket of his torn jeans were the only currency he had to pay for our festive feast.
It was the most delicious meal I’ve ever had.
“I don’t need anything to drink,” I whisper as I follow him into his home.
His home.
The only home Gage had before we met was a bedroom on the second floor of his parents’ lavish estate in the Hollywood Hills.
“I’ll get you a blanket.” He heads down a hallway. The sweater on his back is yanked over his head just as he disappears into a room.
I glance around, taking in the space that he lives in.
It’s nothing like the apartment we shared in California.
This one has an open living room and kitchen with white walls.
The floors are a light hardwood with mismatched throw rugs under the sofa and two leather chairs.
A rectangular cherry wood coffee table is far enough from the sofa that Gage can rest his feet on it when he’s watching TV, just as he always did back when I’d cuddle up next to him and stare at the screen.
I look to the right where a square dining room table sits near a window that faces the neighboring building.
The long black curtains on the window are pushed to the side, affording me a perfect view of the rain hitting the glass.
I scrub my hand over my forehead. My hair is plastered to my head. My makeup must be a mess on my face, and yet, I don’t care.
I’m in shock.
I’m sure my heart stopped beating outside of Tin Anchor when Gage told me that he has a daughter.
I scan the room for a picture of her, but I come up empty.
There’s no artwork or personal items. There’s nothing in here that captures who Gage is except for the light blue knitted blanket hanging over the arm of the black leather sofa.
I walk over to it, studying the wool that has now loosened. I worked on it for weeks before I gave it to him on that Christmas Eve when we ate soup, drank tea and made love in our bed.
It was our last holiday together.
The pad of his bare feet on the floor draws my gaze back to the hallway.
He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and the same jeans he had on earlier. His shoes and socks are gone. A white fluffy blanket is in his hands.
“I have clothes you can change into.” He offers as he shoves the blanket at me. “I put a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt in the bathroom for you. I have a dryer. I can dry your skirt and blouse.”
I look down at my wet clothes and the denim jacket that’s still draped over me. I place the blanket on the sofa so I can slide the jacket off.
The sight of my bra under my blouse flushes my cheeks in embarrassment.
Gage has seen me naked, laid bare and wanting.
He’s aware of the freckle below my right breast and the mole that sits just above my hipbone.
He used to trace a fingertip over the scar on my left knee.
It’s a constant reminder of the surgery I had after a failed landing during a gymnastics class when I was fifteen.
His tender touch always made me feel less self-conscious about it.
I toss the jacket at him and pick up the blanket, wrapping it around me to shield my lingerie from his gaze.
“This is fine,” I say, my voice still quaking. “I can’t stay long.”
I shouldn’t be here at all.
That’s what I should be saying to him, but I let him bring me here because I was in a daze. I was lost the moment he told me that he has a child.
That was something I told him I’d never give him.
Someone else did.
“I’ll make some coffee,” he says, draping the jacket over the back of a chair. He takes a step toward the kitchen before I stop him with a question.
“How old is she?” Tears form in the corners of my eyes.
I tried to convince myself on the taxi ride here that she wasn’t conceived when we were together. If he cheated on me and the result is a beautiful little girl, how can I feel rage at that?
How can I not?
“Nine,” he answers with a soft smile. “My little angel is nine-years-old.”